


exercise just some control

by vigilantejam



Series: exercise our sum control [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Come Eating, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punching, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sadism, Smut, you're fucking welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam
Summary: Stanley likes the rough feel of him, how he leans his whole body into it. He likes the light burn of stubble against his cheek when Charles comes up for air, pressed close and panting. He likes holding a hungry thing and feeding it.
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Stephen S. Stanley
Series: exercise our sum control [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046140
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	exercise just some control

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote a whole 10k of canon-era sadist stanley and didn't let chas fuck, so here's a gift for my boy. a modern au! with privacy and sanitation and £790 prada trousers
> 
> all my love, gratitude, and late-night screeching to robokittens for the assist

* * *

The air is cool but not enough to make him miss his jacket. Orange street light catches the edges of old buildings and new trees, planted optimistically in too-small plots along the pavement. The echo of bass, giddy shrieks, clicking heels and dress shoes are muffled in the thin fog. Stanley is leaning on the car and checking his wristwatch when Charles comes stumbling around the corner, manhandled into a tangle of limbs by some tall bloke. He's big and handsome in a sort of ruddy old money way. Stanley pushes himself upright and opens the car door, warm air spilling out into the night.

“Put him down,” Stanley says, and the pair of them disengage.

“Don't be mean to Graham,” Charles says with an attempt at a wink that just scrunches his whole face, his sloppy grin falling sideways.

Stanley doesn't apologise but rather jerks his head down the street. _Graham_ in return gives him a tight smile and a small nod and sets off walking. Maybe he'll find a cab, maybe he won't, but he's not getting in the car.

“Graham said I'm his favourite,” Charles is slurring, his eyes half-lidded, but he's walking steady enough. _Prowling_ , really.

“Did he,” Stanley sighs.

“Graham said I'm the _prettiest._ ”

“Graham has fucking terrible taste.”

Charles crowds up to Stanley, mouth just below his, hot breath damp against his chin and jaw.

“How about your taste?”

Stanley steps to the side and puts Charles into the car by the scruff of his collar. Charles giggles as he folds into the back seat, and Stanley slides in behind him and pulls the door shut. The car glides into motion immediately.

“There's a bottle of water in there, if you want to-”

Stanley doesn't finish the sentence before Charles has hauled himself into his lap, hands braced either side of his head, straddling his thighs with his knees balanced on the edge of the seat. His shirt is tight. Not too small exactly, but slim cut where Charles is not slim. The fabric strains around the tops of his arms and stretches tantalisingly across his chest. Stanley wraps his arms around his sides, spreads his hands wide across his back, and leans his head up to look at Charles above him, his eyes blown and black in the shadows.

Charles kisses and kisses. Stanley likes the rough feel of him, how he leans his whole body into it. He likes the light burn of stubble against his cheek when Charles comes up for air, pressed close and panting. He likes holding a hungry thing and feeding it. He wonders how long Charles can stay like that, bound up in his arms, kissing and licking and biting until their tongues and lips are ruined. But that's not a game for tonight.

“What's off limits?” Stanley asks, clenching his jaw against the onslaught of images that come with that question.

“Nothing tonight,” Charles flashes him a crooked smile. “That's why I called you.”

“Hmm,” Stanley digs his fingers into the meat of Charles' shoulder and listens to his soft hiss of pleasure. “You did.”

Charles leans in close, “And you answered.”

Stanley growls and draws Charles to him again. He presses his face against the pale patterned cotton of Charles' shirt and worries a button between his teeth. Charles smells sweet and dirty. He smells of spirits, sweat, and cigarette smoke, like he's been passed around the whole club already, and he's rolling his hips down against Stanley, getting impossibly closer. Stanley shifts up into the weight and bites down on Charles' chest, just above his nipple, a mouth full damp cotton and his teeth digging into firm flesh. Charles moans low and loud and only partly for show as his head tips back and Stanley grasps him tighter. Charles gets one hand to his belt and starts working on the buckle, and with other grips at Stanley's shoulder, up to his neck, his thumb pushing against the hinge of Stanley's jaw as he comes in for another frantic kiss, all teeth and spit. The thick air, the purr of the engine, the tight space, it feels seedy and disposable. As they wind through the streets soft light strobes past the window. Charles lifts his hips forward to shove his trousers and underwear down, and Stanley holds him up with broad hands around his waist. Charles gets a hand on his cock and strokes slow and easy, he leans back and his head hits the glass partition with a light knock. Stanley makes eye contact with his driver in the rear view mirror and the glass darkens. He knows it still isn't sound proof.

“Jacket,” he says, and holds tight while Charles leans over to the other seat.

Charles rummages through the jacket pockets until he finds the small sachet and raises his eyebrows. “You came prepared.”

Charles tears away a little strip of plastic with his teeth, spits it to the side, and offers the packet to Stanley. Stanley dodges the pun and just shakes his head. “No. Open yourself up. Let me see it.”

Charles makes a low guttural sound and cants his hips up. He squeezes the liquid over his fingers, and reaches back. He looks at Stanley with fire in his eyes and his mouth falls open and he sighs deep as he pushes into himself.

It's the easiest thing in the world, for Stanley to sit here, his boy in his lap; to watch him riding on his own fingers, rolling his eyes back and chewing on his lower lip, his cock bobbing dark and heavy between them. Stanley wraps a hand loose around it and Charles moans and bucks into the touch. Stanley splays his fingers over Charles' belly, pushes up under his tight little shirt to palm handfuls of his tits.

“Fuck, your hands,” Charles breathes.

“Are you going to be good for me?” Stanley murmurs.

Charles opens his eyes and smiles like a wolf. “Not on your life.”

The car slows and pulls up to a tall building. Stanley unceremoniously deposits Charles into the seat next to him and opens the door. He gulps at the fresh air. Charles is intoxicating and he knows it. It doesn't do to keep him in confined spaces. Stanley ducks out of the car and watches Charles scrambling about on the seat. He emerges with his trousers pulled up but unbuttoned, his hair sprouting in all directions, and his shirttails loose. Stanley has half a mind to send him upstairs on his own, but instead pushes the door shut and the car glides away. Charles catches his hand and tugs him towards the building. Stanley looks up all the floors. Almost all the windows are dark.

In the lobby cold light crashes off white marble and chrome and Stanley squints against the attack. “When are you moving out?”

“Stop bitching,” Charles teases and gets an indecent handful of Stanley's arse just as they walk past the concierge desk.

In the lift Charles is on him again, pressing his erection up against Stanley's hip and growling into the shoulder of his jacket. His hands are busy around Stanley's waist, tugging his shirt free and skimming his fingers into his trousers. Stanley ignores him, keeping his eyes instead on the security camera in its little dark dome.

It's not far from the lift to the flat and when they get to the door Stanley crowds Charles against the wall and begins working his shirt buttons open. He fits his leg against Charles' cock and leans on it until Charles is cursing against his neck. There's a sharp jab in his thigh that makes Stanley hiss and pull back. He looks down and sees Charles' hand in his pocket, his keys pointed out beneath the light wool.

“You are such a shit.”

Charles just grins his most insufferable grin and whines when Stanley pushes his hand into the pocket and twists the keys away from him. Stanley starts unlocking the door while Charles curls around him, groping at his dick over his trousers

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”

“I think I already have,” Charles says, squeezing and pushing in the heel of his hand.

Stanley takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Inside is clean and warm. Charles' minimalism isn't as harsh as the aesthetic of the building, softened with oversized furniture and deep rugs in slate grey and auburn. The door clicks shut behind Stanley and Charles peels away from him to hit a switch that spills dim light over them. Charles whips out of his shirt and throws it at the sofa behind him. He kicks off his shoes and runs his hands down Stanley's legs as he sinks to his knees on the hardwood floor.

Charles is looking up at him through dark lashes as he pulls at Stanley's laces and eases the leather open. Stanley had fallen for it once, the big brown doe-eyes and pliant mouth routine. Now he knows where to look, and sees the damnable glint in Charles' eyes, the little light that keeps him slightly removed, slightly ironic. Stanley knows how to make it melt away. He puts his hand on Charles' shoulder to balance and presses just a little too hard into his clavicle. Charles tugs his shoe free and pulls away Stanley's sock, then does the same for the other foot. He cups his hand around the back of Stanley's calf and strokes down, brushing his fingertips over Stanley's ankle bone. It appears gentle, and reverent, but its pretence makes it a provocation.

Stanley reaches down and holds Charles' chin between his thumb and the crook of his finger. He's waiting for Charles to whine impatiently, turn his head into the touch and bite his fingers, but he doesn't. He just watches Stanley pull his left arm back, palm flat and facing, then Charles' breath hitches.

“Say it.”

“Carnival.”

“Okay?”

Charles nods. Stanley swings.

The sound and sharp tingling pain sing through him, and when Charles turns back to look up at him again there's a film coating his eyes. He holds his chin up again, ready for the next slap. Instead Stanley lifts a bare foot, rests it against Charles' chest and pushes as Charles bends backwards beneath it. He shifts his weight as Charles' shoulders touch the floorboards and leans down harder. He feels bones and cartilage rearranging beneath the pressure, and he sees Charles' eyes widen as he closes a hand around Stanley's ankle. Stanley slides his foot lower and digs his heel into the soft part just below Charles' sternum, between the curve of his ribs, putting yet more weight into it. It'll be painful now, not just uncomfortable.

“Why did you call me really?” he asks quietly, and looks at a bit of the floor to the side of Charles' head. “No one to call you baby and wet and tight and fuck you into next week? I don't believe it. That Graham looked up to the task, and he's clearly a fan.”

Charles squirms under him and huffs in shallow breaths.

“Certainly no shortage of people in that club ready to take you round the back, work you over and make you choke on a dick. Leave another hate crime statistic in the gutter.”

Stanley looks back at Charles now, his dark eyes blown out and wanting, sweat starting to bead at his hairline. Charles groans and whines as Stanley moves again and lowers himself to the floor, putting almost his full weight through his shin against Charles' chest. He snarls, and pushes his knee into Charles' neck. “You called me.”

“I want you,” Charles croaks, barely audible.

Stanley puts a hand to Charles' jaw and traces the back of his fingers light and gentle over Charles' cheek to his temple and back again as Charles chokes under him. He kneels hard on Charles' throat as he pushes himself back to standing and straightens out his shirt. Charles gulps and runs his hands over his neck, soothing away the hurt. Stanley lets him take a couple of good breaths and then kicks, the flat hard bridge of his foot driving into Charles' ribs. Charles groans and rolls to the side and Stanley kicks again, catching him above the kidney.

“Get up,” he says, while Charles is still curled up and panting.

Stanley walks to the bedroom. It's just a few strides away, up a couple of soft carpeted steps, behind a wall of dark wood display shelves filled with carefully curated books and artifacts. He doesn't check that Charles is following him.

The bed is obnoxiously large and takes up most of the room. It is immaculately made up and covered with a dark bedspread that has some shining thread detail running through it. Stanley steps around it and shrugs off his jacket. He lays it carefully over the armchair in the corner and unbuttons his cuffs. He glances out of the window, the wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling view of the city, as he removes his shirt and folds it over his jacket. When he turns back to the room Charles is standing there, his trousers discarded somewhere, his boxer briefs clinging to the hard shape of his cock, a damp patch on the fabric. Stanley beckons him over and he comes, easy and yielding in his hands as he pushes him up to the window. It isn't bright inside, but it's dark outside. They watch their reflections flicker in and out between the night and all the city lights below, ghosts in the gaps between.

He flattens his bare chest against Charles' back and drops his head, and rests the flat front of his teeth against Charles' shoulder. He runs his hands up Charles' ribs to his chest and pulls and paws at his tits. He twists one nipple between his fingers until Charles is rolling his shoulders back and pleading for more. He raises one thumb to Charles' mouth and one to his own, copies the swirling pattern Charles' tongue makes against the pad, then he drops his hands back down and flicks at Charles' nipples with spit-slicked thumbs, pinches and pulls again. Charles whines and throws his head back and Stanley mouths along the line of his shoulder and follows the artery up his neck to behind his ear. He slips one hand beneath the waistband of Charles' underwear and strokes him slow and firm, making sure Charles can feel the smooth warm metal of his wedding band all the way along the underside of his cock.

“You are no one's favourite,” he rasps low into Charles' ear. “You are nothing.”

Charles catches his eye in the window and makes a small sound. “Make me feel it.”

Stanley takes a step back and stretches his shoulders. Charles nods at his reflection and flattens his arms up against the glass, and rests his forehead against the back of his hands. Stanley watches him breathe in deep and then punches. He hits quickly with stinging jabs to either side of Charles' back, _one two three four_ low on his back as he exhales. _One two three_ , higher up and harder, against the broad flat of Charles' shoulder, pushing the air out of his lungs. He tightens his fists and strikes the same place again with more force, turns to the side, _one two, one two_ , sharp and cruel into his ribs.

Stanley steps up close again, and flexes his aching hands over Charles' shoulders, up to the back of his neck. Charles arches and gasps as Stanley digs in and drags blunt nails down his spine. Stanley kneels and flattens his hand wide over one side of Charles' arse and squeezes hard, pulling a low moan of appreciation from above. He noses over Charles' underwear, pressing into the crack between Charles' cheeks. The material is damp with sweat and lubricant. He pulls at Charles' hips to turn him around and closes his mouth over the shape of Charles' cock. He breathes hot over the cotton and hears the squeak of Charles' fingertips against the window, the light thunk as the back of his head hits the glass.

“Fuck. Fuck that's so good.”

Stanley turns his head to nip at the inside of Charles' leg, then reaches up and hooks his fingers into Charles' underwear and pulls down, easing him free at last. His cock is flushed and hard, jutting out of dark curls right at him. Stanley looks up at Charles and licks his lips and noses into the crease of Charles' groin and licks a wet line to just shy of his balls. Charles whines and winds his hand into Stanley's hair.

“Touch me, please.”

Stanley grunts as he gets to his feet, and he makes Charles stand still, breathless with the taste of begging on his tongue, before raising a hand to his face. He curls his hand around Charles' jaw and rubs soft circles with his thumb over his cheek. He feels the tendons twitch beneath his fingers as Charles swallows and nods.

“Please.”

Stanley takes a step back and throws the punch. His fist is clenched tight and he turns through his hips. The blow lands and sends a current up his forearm. Charles' head whips to the side and Stanley catches him before he topples, lifting with the momentum and throwing him down on the bed. He lands with a light bounce and a puff of laughter.

“Jesus god-fucking _christ_ , that hurt,” Charles laughs and raises a hand to his cheek. His eyes go wide and he holds his fingers out to Stanley, blood shining on the tips, blood striped across his face. It's still seeping from the cut, a small split at the point of his cheekbone.

Stanley climbs over Charles' legs and sits straddling his belly, and pulls his fist back nice and visible. He hits again, not nearly so hard but the skin is broken now and splits a little wider. Stanley growls and leans down, gathering Charles by the wrists and pinning them to the mattress above his head, and plants his weight over him. He dips his head, opens his mouth over the cut and swipes rough with his tongue. He nips at Charles' skin with his teeth and scrapes down his cheek to his lips. He kisses rough, pressing Charles harder against the bed, rolling his hips back until they're hard against each other, a layer of grazing fabric between them. Charles hisses and bucks up against him.

“Why do you still have clothes on?” he grouses when Stanley breaks away from his mouth. "Every time."

“Keep your hands there,” Stanley replies, ignoring him as he drags kisses and bites along Charles' jaw and neck. Charles arches against him again but does as he's told.

Stanley sits up, spreads both hands wide over Charles' tits, groping and kneading, feeling the heat rise with Charles' heart rate pounding beneath. He straightens his fingers and delivers rigid slaps across where the flesh is fullest, watches the ripple across the muscle and slaps again. He strikes the nipple this time, until the skin is mottled red and white and the dark nubs stand up. He ducks again and closes his teeth around the left, tracing his fingers down Charles' ribs as he goes, gouging into Charles' sides where he has punched them tender. Charles is writhing beneath him, rubbing his own cock raw against the crotch of Stanley's trousers.

“Holy fuck yes, please please.”

Stanley works his way further down, his knees on the edge of the bed and he bites and sucks a bruise beside Charles' navel. Charles' cock is right there, and he trails more nips and licks down towards the join of Charles' hip, tilts just so to skirt around, touching everywhere except where Charles wants him. Charles keens and strains for more and Stanley just presses his smile against the inside of Charles' thigh and slides off the bed.

“Up,” he says with a tap to Charles' foot.

Stanley turns away and listens to Charles bouncing about and rearranging himself. He strips off his trousers and underwear and lays them with the rest of his clothes. He gives his dick a cursory squeeze and a tug. It's interested enough not to be insulting to anyone's efforts. He turns back to the bed to see Charles has settled into a nest of pillows by the headboard and has his hands back over his head, his fingers dancing in a little wave.

Stanley approaches, loosely stroking his dick, and narrows his eyes as Charles scans him up and down. Charles looks hungry, then smug.

“Damn, you look _good_ , Daddy. You going to fuck me up with that monster cock?”

Stanley rolls his eyes. “I think I've made myself clear about that word. You can do better.”

Charles takes one hand out from under a pillow and tosses a condom to Stanley. Stanley picks up the packet from where it lands by Charles' foot and puts it to the side. He kneels between Charles' legs, pulls his hips close and leans over him, caging him in with an arm either side of his head. Their cocks fit alongside and Charles is halfway through a loud moan when Stanley eats up the rest of it. Charles' legs are hitched up and wide and Stanley grinds down, opening up Charles' hips and stretching his hamstrings. Charles moans again, his breath ragged and hot by Stanley's ear.

“How about this, old man? You fuck me so hard my screams make the neighbours complain. You fuck me so hard you have to answer some uncomfortable questions while I'm in A&E getting my pelvis glued back together. You fuck me- ”

Stanley bites hard on Charles' collarbone just as he rocks their dicks together and Charles stops talking. He skims down his body to work another bite at Charles' hip bone, then at the crease of his groin, then the softest skin of his thigh, right over the artery. He sucks and pinches at it while Charles writhes and curses.

“Will you do something, I'm going mad.”

“I thought I was doing plenty,” Stanley hums against Charles’ skin and licks down to nuzzle into his balls. He holds Charles' cock with a hand pressing it flat to his stomach. It provides a little friction, a warm soft stroke every time Charles moves. He flicks his tongue over short coarse hairs between Charles' hole and his balls, and slides one finger into him. He doesn't push deep. Each touch is light and not nearly enough.

“You're an arrogant fucking cunt, you know that. What do you want from me? Don't I beg enough, you sadist? Stop threatening to fuck me and _fuck me_ before I kick you out.”

Stanley stops moving altogether and laughs when Charles gives an exasperated screech.

“Fine fine fine fine please please _fuck_.”

It's hard to take his time like this because every time he gets inside Charles he wants more. But he also wants Charles strung out, reduced to a puddle of mewls and wet breaths, so he goes slow and steady. He digs his thumb into the bite on Charles' thigh, and pushes Charles' legs up so his hips lift further. He traces little licks and flicks around Charles' hole with his tongue then pushes inside along with his finger. He works slow and gentle, feeding more saliva in along his tongue, his own wet smacking sounds and rough breath filling his ears between Charles' thighs, nearly drowning out the increasingly desperate yowling from above. He comes up for air and looks up past Charles' heaving chest to his face, and waits for him to look back, then grinds the heel of his hand down on Charles' cock and runs his tongue along the seam between his balls.

“Murderer,” Charles gasps, barely above a whisper as he drops his head back.

Stanley draws one ball into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue, then the second one, and buries his nose alongside Charles' cock until he can't breathe. He holds for a second and he pulls off gasping. The gusts of breath against wet skin make Charles’ leg kick out. Stanley dips back to tonguing at his hole. He crooks the one finger slightly and pushes deep until Charles cries.

“That's it, that's it.”

Stanley pushes in a second finger in exchange for a fresh string of expletives, then pulls out completely and leans back, his hot breath and fingers replaced by the cooler air of the bedroom. He licks and coats his two fingers with more spit and then taps sharp and quick against Charles' rim. It makes Charles hiss, his stomach tighten and his dick jump.

“Fuck! _Please_.”

Stanley waits and watches Charles' hole twitch and beckon. Charles' whining follows. He starts to move, to sit up, to reach out.

“Lie down,” Stanley orders.

Charles sinks back but he can't stop moving, rocking his hips at nothing, his hands winding around and grasping at the pillows above him. His bottom lip red and swollen from sucking and biting at it.

“Look at you,” Stanley says. “It would serve you right if I left you like this.”

“Don't you dare,” Charles growls through gritted teeth.

Stanley swats his leg. “Turn over.”

He retrieves the condom and rolls it on while watching Charles groan and wince as he rolls his tired and bruised muscles over the sheets. Charles props himself up on shaking elbows and knees with his arse in the air, round and flushed. Stanley can't resist raising his hand and planting a heavy slap right in the centre. Charles howls and lurches forward and half the sound is muffled in the pillows.

Stanley smacks at Charles' legs until he's spread wide, and lines up behind him. He drags his cock through the split of Charles' cheeks and taps at his hole.

“You absolute bastard,” Charles hisses. “Get inside me, right the fuck now.”

When he gets his cock in him he doesn't take his time. Charles is trembling and wired and open and Stanley pushes in hard and fast, making sure it hurts, making sure not enough is suddenly too much and Charles gasps and cries out at the same time, chokes himself on the pleasure and pain of it. He takes it like he takes everything Stanley has to give him, shamelessly and voraciously, rocking back into each of Stanley’s thrusts, keening and cursing. His knuckles turn white where he's clutching the sheets.

Stanley hauls Charles up to his chest, and coils an arm tight around him. He takes almost the whole weight as Charles struggles to hold himself up on quaking legs. Charles grips and scratches at Stanley's thighs as he ruts into him. He feeds Charles his fingers, hooking them inside his cheek and pulling him wide. The skin stretches taught, and fire creeps up Stanley's spine. His knuckles graze Charles' teeth but he doesn't bite. Charles swallows and gags as his mouth fills with saliva and it dribbles out over his chin. He licks and moans against Stanley's fingers and the vibrations ripple through him.

Stanley wrenches away cruelly, making Charles' neck twist too far, and shoves him back to his hands and knees.

“Hands,” he snarls, and Charles holds his hands crossed behind his back, and his shoulders and chest drop to the sheets.

Stanley grabs Charles' wrists tight, feeling the bones shift beneath his grip, and leans back. He pushes a slick finger into Charles, watching his hole stretch to fit it alongside his cock. He grunts with satisfaction at the image, at how Charles burns and opens for him, how even now he's begging for more.

“Please please please- I'm going to- please let- _god_ that hurts so good.”

“Tell me again how I'm an arrogant cunt,” Stanley says, his voice raw. “Of course I am. Look at you. I can have you like this a thousand times. You _need me to_.”

He draws his finger out slow, and plants his damp hand between Charles' shoulder blades and pushes him down. He lets go of Charles' wrists and claws on to his hips instead, leaning for more leverage. Charles twists his fingers into the sheets, his arms and shoulders flexing and straining as Stanley ploughs into him.

“Hang on, I can't- ” Charles says into the sheets and his legs give out and Stanley falls on top of him. Charles cries out at the harsh rasp of the sheets against his cock.

“Fuck, come here,” Stanley scrabbles back off the bed and drags Charles by the ankles. He yanks one leg up and flips the whole of Charles' fuck-weak body. He's got him on his back now, one of Charles' legs against his shoulder, the other slung low around his hips. They're a perfect fit like this. It's easier, faster, on his feet he can really get deep. Every snatch of his hips is accompanied by an obscene chorus of moans and hard wet slaps and the creak of the bed.

“You can move your hands,” he pants.

Charles immediately gets his hands to his neck, his chest, rubbing over his nipples and tightening his fingers around the base of his throat. Stanley holds Charles' thigh to his chest with one hand and wraps the other round Charles' cock. Charles groans low and heavy and arches his hips up.

“Oh fuck, that's it yes- harder, shit I'm so fucking close.”

He's loud without the sheets to muffle his voice. 

“Let me see you come,” Stanley growls, breath ragged. “Let me see you used up and wretched. Fucked and beaten. The only thing you're good for.”

He turns his head and bites the inside of Charles' knee. Charles screams out and spends in streaks up his body. His muscles clench down tight around Stanley's dick and he jerks and convulses as Stanley drives slow and deep again and again. He laughs and gasps with each one until he's wrung out and bats Stanley away.

“Holy fuck.”

Charles is pink and raw, semen and sweat shining on his stomach. He's breathless, and limp as a rag doll, with his eye half swollen up and lashes clumped together and tears and blood making tracks down his cheek.

“Now you're pretty,” Stanley concedes, swaying on his feet. He slaps Charles on the flank and it makes him jolt and giggle again, and leaves him laid out.

In the bathroom Stanley tosses the empty condom and surveys the damage in the mirror. He's flushed across his chest and red-faced, it makes his hair look paler. There are a couple of marks, one a little high on the collar, but nothing that requires a reprimand. There's a stack of matching folded towels beside the sink and Stanley takes the smallest one, soaks it and wipes himself down. Charles' soap is tea and grapefruit. He leaves the towel on the floor.

When he returns to the bedroom Charles is still sprawled out like a starfish.

“Oh, you didn't have to wait up for me, darling,” Stanley says as he rounds the bed to pick up his clothes.

“Aren't you staying then?”

“I am invited?” Stanley asks, pulling his boxers back on.

Charles sits up. “Get in bed and stop being a prick.”

Charles waits for him to settle between the sheets, then kisses his shoulder and smiles sweetly. He hops off the bed with a wince and goes to the bathroom himself. Stanley hears the shower start to run and gets up to retrieve his phone from his jacket. He gets back to bed just before the shower shuts off, sets an alarm for the morning, for _three hours' time_ , and turns his phone face down on the bedside cabinet. Charles returns, cool and damp, black-eyed and beaming, touching fingertips to his swollen cheekbone. He curls up to Stanley's side without a word, peppering kisses down his arm, nudges him with his nose until he gets a kiss back. When he's warmed up Charles reaches over Stanley and hits one switch to turn out the light, and another that sends the curtains scrolling across the window, then he rolls away. Stanley breathes out and relaxes, turns to the other side and drifts off.

*********

Chas wakes to the soft beeping of an alarm he did not set. His left eye is glued shut and his whole body feels like it was hit by a bus. He feels Stanley's weight dip and leave the mattress and he shuffles over to the still-warm other side of the bed and snoozes. When he wakes again the curtains are open, the shower is running, and there's a glass of water on the bedside cabinet next to a phone. He drinks happily and pain blooms out over his face. Stanley's phone is fingerprint locked and he can't get the camera open from the lockscreen. That's probably for the best. Stanley's clothes are laid at the foot of the bed and he rolls from under the sheets towards them. There is nothing of interest in the jacket pockets, but he notices it's blue, so dark it had looked black last night. As he picks up the white shirt he catches a hint of the cologne Stanley wears. He pushes his face into the fabric and inhales deeply. It's an earthy and fresh scent, cedar and juniper maybe, a day old and faded but still more than enough to make him roll his hips against the bed and get his morning wood to full attention. He stuffs one cuff and half the sleeve into his mouth, buries his nose in the collar, and takes a foggy half-suffocated breath. He licks his palm and pushes the rest of the shirt down between his legs as he grinds into his hand and the mattress.

He's lazy in the mornings. Or he is after those sorts of nights. He's slow and heavy, stiff and sore, all of his urgency and impatience fucked out of him. Languid. Dreamy. He might even make it to lunchtime before he starts twitching and ferreting again. His ribs and shoulders stretch with a dull ache with every movement. His hips are on fire, and it only urges him on as he ruts harder against the shirt, the expensive cotton still too rough on his prick. He cannot even think about the state of his arse. His back. _Fuck_.

There's a polite cough and he turns his head a little, and opens his good eye to see Stanley in the doorway of the en-suite. He's got his trousers on already, the miserable bastard. He shifts his gaze up and his attention is caught by Stanley's hands. He's buckling his watch, his fingers moving practised and easily over metal and leather, they're a little swollen, a little blue and purple. Chas groans and plants his face back in the shirt.

“Don't let me interrupt,” Stanley says, low and smooth.

Chas lifts his head again and Stanley watches him like a hawk, one hand over the front of his trousers, palming slowly at his own dick. It makes heat rise up in him, Stanley's eyes on him like that, but he wants to put on a show, make it last, wants to luxuriate in it. He rolls over, props himself up on his hip, and lifts his other knee wide. The stretch through his groin and thigh is blissful agony and he drops his head back, exposing the line of his neck. An invitation, as if Stanley wouldn't just take what he wanted without being invited. He doesn't move closer, but his eyes flash and he gasps, so softly. If Chas had any shame he might be embarrassed by how much that tiny sound of approval does for him. Instead he moans as wantonly and as loud as he can around the shirt sleeve, runs his hand and the white cotton over his chest, pulls at his own gloriously sore nipple, and arches up off the bed. It hurts like fuck but he's sure it's worth it. He jerks his hips up into his fist, each effort burning through tensed muscle. He can't breathe, can barely see, it all hurts, and _Stanley's smiling at him_. He comes all up himself, white strings painted over his bruises, and collapses back down, winded and happy. He pulls the soaked shirt out of his mouth. It's a write-off. He's halfway to wiping his soiled hand off on it when Stanley lunges forward and catches his wrist. He draws their hands up to his mouth and licks Chas' finger, just lightly at the tip. Then he stops, and throws his arm back down.

“Clean up your own mess,” he says.

Chas doesn't need to be told twice. He stuffs his hand greedily into his own mouth, laving between his fingers with his tongue, getting heady again from the thick taste and Stanley's eyes roving over him. When he's done he runs his fingers through the spunk on his chest and eats that up too. Stanley leans over him suddenly and pushes a big square palm through his hair, tightens his fist, and yanks his head back. His mouth is hot and hungry as he brings them together, kissing Chas sloppy and dirty. He tastes of toothpaste. Bit of a waste, he'll leave with his mouth all minty fresh and salty sour. Stanley's all force and tongue and his other hand is on Chas' neck, and pain is arcing from his scalp to his spine. Chas groans into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. Fuck, he's going to die here. Stanley drops him just as abruptly, and Chas is still stunned breathless when the white shirt sails past his head and lands on the floor. He twists around to see Stanley at his wardrobe, picking out something clean. He selects a soft pale grey t-shirt and shrugs his suit jacket over the top. It's a low collar, and there's a bite on Stanley's clavicle that would be covered by a dress shirt but here it's on display. He looks incredible, half hard and his hair damp from the shower. He's probably going to tell his driver to fuck off just so he can get on the tube with his fucking vascular hands and bruised knuckles and ruin every twink on the commute.

Chas gingerly touches the cut on his cheekbone. Stanley's bruises are not the only trophies from the night.

“Is this mine or yours?” he asks, but what he means is, _Can I flag someone down with this, or have you marked your territory?_

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Do what you want.”

Chas rolls over onto his back and lets his head loll off the side of the bed. Come-streaked and battered, he looks like a police report. Stanley's indifference needles at him. It's liberating, in a way, to be insignificant, to mean nothing, but he's somewhat offended he doesn't mean more. If he could say how dare you and thank you with one word he would. He settles for two.

“Fuck you.”

He watches upside down as Stanley collects his phone from the bedside cabinet, and blows a kiss at his back when he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading my pornography, i hope you had a nice time
> 
> i took something of a liberty with the amount of force required to split chas' cheek and the damage it would have also done to stanley's hand but i think we can all be happy with the results
> 
> i care about smells a lot, and [this is stanley's cologne](https://www.byredo.com/uk_en/super-cedar-eau-de-parfum) if you're curious/wish to know the manner of my death


End file.
